"Xander, you're leaning too far forward on the rower," Fiona called out, her voice cutting through the thumping bass of the workout playlist. She crossed the studio floor, her sneakers squeaking against the polished wood, and adjusted the resistance on his machine without asking. "You’ll wreck your back if you keep that form."

Fiona was the kind of instructor who didn’t just lead the class—she owned it. Her dark ponytail swung with every step, and her fitted tank top clung to her toned frame, revealing the faint sheen of sweat from her own earlier workout. Xander, tall and broad-shouldered with a perpetual five o’clock shadow, looked up at her with a mix of annoyance and amusement. He’d been coming to her classes for months, always lingering afterward to ask questions or crack a joke, but today he seemed off—distracted, maybe even a little nervous.

"Alright, Coach," he said, flashing a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "But if I hurt myself, you’re carrying me out of here." Fiona rolled her eyes, but as she turned to check on the rest of the class, she caught him staring at her—not at her face, but at the small tattoo peeking out from under her sports bra. She hesitated, then glanced back at him, her expression unreadable. "Focus on your form, Xander," she said quietly. "We’ll talk after class."